


Too Much Is Never Enough (Higher, Higher, Push It Up)

by Arkie



Series: DJ, Turn Up The Fucking Sound [ umy garbage court ] [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Gargoyles, Kelpies, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Selkies, Urban Magic Yogs, fuckin... crazy ass descriptions, magic fuckin clubs, umy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkie/pseuds/Arkie
Summary: "What's wrong, stranger?" the man breathed from lips parted so close he felt the warmth and Ross knew he shouldn't be able to hear him. The music was pounding, encroaching, consuming. Even a yell would be swallowed.-Gargoyles aren't made to be alone. One finds himself lost in a strange and magical place, and then found.





	Too Much Is Never Enough (Higher, Higher, Push It Up)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the feckin boppin 'Rebels' by Wiwek.

Music pounded, shook the floor and the walls and the roof and lights coloured and blurred, illuminating nothing - hair, hands flung high, cheekbones and grins and lifting tassels and loose bits of clothing in the crowd. Blue, pink, purple, red - crisscrossed and glowing.

In the centre of it all, Ross stood, lips wet and brow pinched. The bodies around him jostled and flung wide, but never quite touched him. He didn't know why. He didn't know what he was doing there. 

He caught flashes of a man, smaller than most others and smiling, flitting between bodies, between half-lidded gazes, pulling with a heavy look and leaving them wanting. Ross's eyes were drawn to him, not unlike others' nearby, but the man's met his and paused, grin fading and sharpening with intent. He moved closer like liquid - unhindered and unmoved by the shared chaos. Unlike Ross, the bodies didn't move from him; rather, he moved with it, with the flow and the ebb and the slide. He must have had feet to walk on though Ross didn't see them as he was all but gliding, floating, carried by the wave of motion, the beat, and vibe in the thick air. Then, he was close, amber eyes hot and intense, pulling and gliding over Ross's. He was craning to meet Ross's gaze he was so close. Ross leant back but could move no farther, transfixed and caught. 

"What's wrong, stranger?" the man breathed from lips parted so close he felt the warmth and Ross _knew_ he shouldn't be able to hear him. The music was pounding, encroaching, consuming. Even a yell would be swallowed. 

Ross didn't even really register the need to respond, gladly submerged and curious in those eyes and those lips, the full and wanting abyss. 

"Why aren't you dancing?" the man asked next, a taint of curiosity of his own in his eyes. "Living?" His hand trailed up Ross's arm from the wrist, the contact amazing and pulling and Ross couldn't tear his eyes away. "That's what people come here to do." His eyes were searching Ross's and Ross couldn't give them what they wanted. He hummed and his eyes were narrowing. Ross felt bereft, that amber disappearing even by a few millimetres. "Cold as stone, hm?" 

Ross leant in to compensate and wanted to ask... _something_. ' _What is it you want?_ '  _'How do I give it to you?_ ' But he couldn't. 

Strangely, the music seemed to both intensify and quiet as the man scrutinised him, as though the volume had turned up but the effect halfway drained with the effort. The man tilted his head, curious and puzzled, an inch away and so very _almost_ there. His eyes dropped away to scan Ross, top to bottom and back. "Why doesn't it affect you?" he whispered slowly. 

' _But it_ does _affect me,_ ' Ross wanted to say, confused and desperate. 

Without breaking eye contact, the man called out in the same low volume. "Smith?" Ross felt the new presence without looking. "What do you think?" 

"It's nothing, Trott," a bored voice murmured from behind him. "Leave it."

The entrancing man's eyes flicked away to shoot a playful sort of glare over Ross's shoulder, and the spell seemed to shift - Ross turned and saw the newcomer. A man, taller and broader and no less beautiful, both invisible and the centre of attention. Separate and conjoined, irrevocably a part. The swill around them lapped it up. 

" _Smith_ ," the first man breathed with an admonishing kind of tone and the slightest breath of a smirk. "Don't you want to find out?" 

"You've done this before Trott," the other replied lowly. He hadn't so much as looked at Ross. 

Trott tipped his head to the side and his lips widened into a delightedly challenging smirk. "You going to stop me?" 

Smith rolled his eyes under the dancing lights and levelled a hard glare. 

Trott sighed and it wasn't audible over the noise. "Come on, _Smith_ ," he moaned. "Look at him. You _know_ there's something different." 

Smith's eyes finally flicked to Ross as though it was some terribly begrudging effort. Down and then up to his eyes, and Ross felt something lock at the contact. It didn't have the same effect Trott did, but he had the feeling that it wasn't for lack of ability - this man was holding back. Where Trott's were an ocean, Smith's eyes were a floodgate, with bars where there should be sealed plates of metal. Some of the same feeling - the pull, the pounding music, the entrancement - slipped through as though as a statement, and Ross couldn't have moved away if he tried. 

"Fine," Smith grumbled and Ross felt an inexplicable rush at the assent. 

Ross turned to Trott and found him grinning, too-wide and delighted, amber gaze locked on his. Trott blinked and gave an expectant little head tilt. "Come, then, stranger. We can talk outside." 

He backed away, a step, another step, before turning, effortlessly avoiding the partygoers' flails, would easily have vanished into the sea of bodies if Ross hadn't been pulled along by some invisible thread, glad to be of service, to be able to do something for this effortless creature. Smith was following behind him, he was sure, though he was silent, engulfed by the pounding feet, the music, the press and the untouching shove. 

A door opened before him and he stepped out in Trott's wake. It was balcony, or roof, clearly, empty but for them, and it was the strangest thing - he saw the night sky above them, the press of neighbouring city buildings and the glow of invisible city lights. Yet, he felt no wind, no cold, tasted no freshness in the air - and the music's heated swell, though quietened, had seemed to follow him out. It was as though he hadn't left the building at all. 

A delicate hand on his chest stopped him in in his tracks and jerked him from his musing. The creature gazed up at him. "Your name, stranger?"

"Ross," he gave immediately on a breath. 

"Ross," Trott mused, tasting the name, rolling it about in his mouth. "What bring you to our little establishment tonight, Ross?" 

Ross felt the other one step around to stand by Trott's side, arms crossed. He paid him no mind. "I don't know," he breathed in reply, too taken to feel distressed at the lack of one.

"You don't know?" Trott repeated with a sympathetic little quirk of his brows. 

He was expecting more and now Ross was distressed. Perhaps Trott knew, and that was why he changed the question. "Alright. Tell me then, Ross. What are you?" 

That, Ross knew the answer to. " _Gargoile_."

" _Gargoile_? Gargoyle?" Trott repeated, brows raised. "Curious. And what would a gargoyle be doing in the middle of a very much predominantly human rave?" 

"I _had_ to be here," Ross explained patiently, the knowledge coming as he spoke, as though something he hadn't realised he had forgotten. 

But at this, Trott's eyes narrowed and he took a half a step back. By his side, Smith tensed but didn't speak.

"You were sent here?" Trott looked worried now. 

Ross shook his head and rushed for the words to reassure them both. "I was _drawn_ here."

At this, Trott paused, and looked away to exchange a look with Smith, but his frown had creased into easy surprise and intrigue so Ross felt eased. 

Smith shot him a direct look with a question. "But you have a master, don't you?"

Ross frowned, for the first time feeling the hole inside him ache, though it had been there all along; a stake pulled loose from an old wound. "No."

Smith and Trott exchanged another surreptitious look. Were they mind-reading? Ross didn't like not knowing.

The look ended with Trott turning back to him with an inquisitive little smile and Smith's brows turning downwards and his lip curling, not in threat but in warning. 

"Ross," Trott began brightly, but not bright like the sun; bright like the hot neon lights inside. 

"Trott..." Smith interrupted in a cautioning tone. 

" _Smith_ ," Trott breathed in return, shooting over an admonishing look. 

After a moment, Smith spoke to him - a disjointed sort of phrase that clearly had a background. "We don't know anything."

"We _never_ know anything," Trott returned smoothly, and for some reason this seemed to soothe Smith. Enough, anyway. Finding permission somewhere in the lack of immediate return, Trott turned back to him, and Ross was once again struck by heating amber. "Ross, how would you feel about sticking around a little while?"

When he didn't immediately answer, Trott continued, hot and wet and soothing, stepping closer. "Gargoyles aren't made be alone. No one could ask you to remain like this. It's someone - somewhere - 's failing, that you are this way at all." He stepped in close, very close, and Ross was even less able to think than he already was. Head tipped back, Trott's nose nearly brushed Ross's and his breath felt warm on Ross's lips. 

"Trott," Smith said from behind, and this time it sounded like he had a proper argument, enough so that Trott paused. "What about _him_?"

Trott's face twisted into something slightly more serious and he stepped away, contemplative. Ross sucked in a breath and suddenly found he could breathe, if air were water and something one doesn't particularly want to breathing. "We'll deal with _him_." Then Trott's face smoothed and he stepped in to Smith, though it didn't sound like he was talking only to him. "Just relax." He drifted a hand up to Smith's cheek. The pulse pounding from inside and all around amplified, headier. "Feel the music, Smith. Everybody does." 

And he pulled up into the most intoxicating, power-hummed kiss Ross had ever seen. A hand went into Smith's hair and _pulled_ , strangling snapped puppet threads, and Smith's hands came up to grip Trott's sides hard and then moved to his bare upper arm and would have left bruises had they both been human - but maybe they still would, Ross didn't know. Open-mouthed and pushing and pulling, it was a kiss Ross would never have thought he'd see outside of perhaps a drunken makeout against a wall, the recklessness, the thrill, the itch for and open display of more. 

Trott pulled away into a wet and incredibly satisfied grin. Smith opened his eyes to simply watch. He softened where Trott had sharpened and it was a strange thing to watch. 

"So, stranger," Trott said, out of breath and flushed with a grin when he turned to Ross. "You're in agreement?"

Ross was nodding before he was aware of it, out of breath and flushed himself, as though he had been the one in the mix and mesh of heat and friction and physicality. 

Trott smiled delightedly and Ross felt a rush to have been the one to put it there. He flicked his gaze up and saw even Smith looked less closed off and glaring, eyes soft and open and sky-neon-blue over Trott's head. "Wonderful," Trott breathed in a rush. He whirled away suddenly, eager. "Smith - we still have a certain intent for tonight, do we not?"

And then Smith was smiling, small and sincere and sharp like everything about Trott. "Certainly," he breathed in return. 

"Come, then, Ross," Trott said to him, happy and heated and giddy at a fresh new start to maneuver and trounce. "Join us tonight, and tomorrow you'll have forgotten your loneliness entirely." He extended an elegant hand to Ross. "I can promise you."

Ross reached for the hand like a starved man reaches for a proffered loaf of bread, and Trott, and Smith behind him, lead him forwards into a pounding room of bright coloured lights and no illumination, and he was glad. 

**Author's Note:**

> So - something of an alternate start for these guys. I mean, since when did they own a club? Since when was Smith the withdrawn one and Trott the impulsive one? The hell's Ross's deal?
> 
> It all just kinda... happened, unveiled word by word and imagery by imagery. But I must admit, I really frickin like how it turned out. There's an entire alternate background - and future - to everything here, vague answers to the many questions brought up. Who knows... I might just have to write more.
> 
> P.S - If I permanently damaged my hearing from the amount of loud bass-heavy club music I blasted through headphones while writing this... it's none of your concern.


End file.
